


Memoriam

by wargoddess



Series: Prompts [10]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9059290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: Inquisitor Carver is dead. Cullen mourns in the fashion that his love would want.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Something There is That Does Not Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6742387) by [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess). 



> For a prompt on Tumblr. Not "fanonical," tho it's technically a continuation of "Something That Lives That Does Not Love." I reserve the right to retcon this with a happier ending at some point. Was just in a grimdark mood and felt like writing something to suit.

     It was your own fault that you died. You knew it would happen. Threw yourself at a god, didn't you? With green fire in one hand and an enchanted sword in the other -- and even though all your people were at your back, he got you right through the heart. Took him down too, so that's all right. Saved the world from being subsumed into the Fade. Saved the elves, even, since Solas was too fucking stupid to realize that none of 'em would've made it in a world where their fears of demons would've gotten them killed. Saved everybody. Except yourself.

     But now you're dead and the world is putting itself back together, Cassandra's got the south in hand and Dorian's handling the north with Bull's help, Barris has the Templars under control and Vivienne's being decent to even the mages who rebelled, mostly out of respect for your memory. Only people you're really worried about -- yeah, despite being dead, that's how this afterlife shit works -- are your kids. And your Cull.

     The kids will be all right. The Inquisition will take care of them. Konsie's already off with the Chargers anyway. Malon's secure in Tevinter under Dorian's protective eye. Lem's in the new Circle being built at Skyhold now, which will one day replace the tower at Cumberland that got destroyed, and Vivienne's taken a personal interest in his education and welfare. They're sad, your children, but they've been through this before; you're not the first parent they've lost, after all. They're strong. They got the best of you. And they've still got each other, so the family you made for yourself is intact.

     Cullen writes to Malon and Konsie on the regular, and nags them to write each other. He becomes more of a father to Lem than you ever were -- tucking him into bed every night, having breakfast with him every morning, sending him off to Vivienne with a kiss and a murmured, "Remember that you are stronger than your fears," which bucks the boy up beautifully. Cull's so different, now, than the half-paranoid magephobe you first fell in love with. They say you can't change a man, but clearly you changed him... or maybe he just changed himself, and you were there to witness it. Nice either way.

     He's grieving, you know. Workaholic that he is, he hasn't taken a day off aside from your funeral -- huge state affair of course, now that you're no longer around to stop Josephine from doing things the way she wants. (She's trying to push Cullen to take over as the new Inquisitor. He's resisting. You think she's going to win. He knows as well as she does that the role is necessary in Thedas right now.) Mourning lines for miles, closed casket tho since Solas' magic turned your body to stone. Cull's work hasn't flagged even a little -- but you can see the grief in his movements, when you watch him close. The way his hands are slower, deliberate where once he was thoughtlessly quick. Every moment is something he has to think about. Choose. Will into existence.

     (You pray nobody brings lyrium near him right now. Leliana's on it, got her people keeping a close eye on the black marketeers and the Known Suspects in Skyhold, but... well, you just hope. It's a dangerous time.)

     He pushes on because he knows you wouldn't want him mourning. You died well, yeah? Fucking hero. And you love him, so you don't want him doing any melodramatic shit like rending his garments or throwing himself on a pyre. What would be the point of that? You want to see him again, sure, but at the end of a long span of life. You want him to love again, find someone else to whisper prayers to while he fucks them blind, raise more children since he's so bloody good at it. But that's something he's got to choose for himself.

     He's walking up the winter path now -- one of the paths outside Skyhold, leading around the castle and up to a meager little memorial that's been used by the soldiers and commonfolk to celebrate the lost. Can't bury people up here; too fucking cold, the ground's like rock. But there's a little plinth, atop which is a censer of smoldering incense that the castle sisters tend, and around which people deposit flowers, flasks of liquor, baby rattles, scraps of cloth. The detritus of grief.

     Cullen's got something of yours to put here, too -- and you laugh when you see it, big dead belly guffaws, because it's a pair of your smalls. Ridiculous arse must have copped them once after a night of doing you crosseyed; he always did like to claim "tokens of his love's favor" as a way to remember particularly lovely sessions. And you see him smile as he looks at them.

     "You would doubtless think this hilarious," he drawls, kneeling before the altar and turning the smalls in his hands. They're made of silk, dyed red with a green waistband and stitched up with gold thread. Ugly as sin, which is why you didn't miss them when they went missing. There was a time, not long after you were named Inquisitor, when the castle servants wanted to put markers of your station all over you, even down to underwear made of imported material and dyed with expensive pigments. You just wanted your arse covered. Cullen must have liked them, though, because he fingers them now. They were good smalls, apart from the color. Loose, soft. Let your balls dangle right and proper.

     Cullen fingers the crotch of them, perhaps thinking the same thing. "I took these after our third night together, after our... resumption," he says. "You were still sore from the first night. I felt guilty, I suppose, for having used you so hard -- ah, but Maker, you were sweet that night. Nearly two years without you. It is a wonder I did not injure us both permanently." He shakes his head and sighs. "Naturally, despite my foolishness, you were pestering me to have you again." He laughs a little. "Ridiculous man."

     You remember that. And he's right and all, but you didn't care if it hurt. You just wanted to feel him again and remind yourself that he was once again yours.

     "I took you to bed to shut you up," Cullen says, amused. "Such a monster you were. You -- " And he blushes, but you know why, now that you've remembered it. You tried to suck the life out of him that night, since he wouldn't give it to you any other way. You made him come in your mouth, on your hands, between your oiled bellies as you rutted against him. He had to cry mercy before you would stop, because you told him you wouldn't otherwise. He shouldn't have been stupid enough to try and dare you.

     He shivers a little, great shoulders shifting beneath his mantle, as he remembers that night. Always liked your mouth, didn't he? Took it enough with his own, dancing his tongue along your lips, nipping at your chin and jawline while you panted through it and begged him for more. You remember him whispering, once, that it was your mouth that made him first start to lust for you. "A sinful mouth," he would murmur in your ear. "Such soft curves, in your hard face. I would notice every time you spoke a word that made an 'O' of your lips. I would want to touch you, and to watch your tongue."

     Down there, on his knees before the altar, you see Cullen catch his breath and shift restlessly. It's a familiar restlessness, and you know what it means: lovely Cullen's thinking lovely thoughts, and they've got him hot and bothered. That's good. It's been months now since you died, and he's a fine healthy man; grief shouldn't put him to sleep, for fuck's sake. He shifts again, though, trying to ignore it, and that's annoying. _Think, you great fool_ , you try to somehow transmit to him across time and space and aether. _Would I, of all people, want you chaste?_

     For a moment you think nothing's to do; his bloody sense of propriety's going to win out. But then he shakes his head and shudders again, and sighs heavily. "Maker. I can almost hear you, telling me... Irreverent wretch. I can't."

     _This is a memorial for me_ , you shout. _Sodding **me**! Come on, Cull. Come on._

     Cullen bites his lip. Shifts the smalls in his hands; shifts position again, uncomfortable. You hold your nonexistent breath. But finally, blessedly, he throws a furtive glance around. Anybody coming up the winter path will be audible long before they're visible; the sound of crunching snow echoes off the castle's walls. No usable parapets on this side of the castle either; nobody's going to look down and get an eyeful. Maybe Leliana's crows might see, but if they care, that's -- well, that's bloody hilarious, pervy crows, but you think they probably won't tell even if they do see.

     And finally, with a soft sigh, Cullen shifts and unfastens his pants.

     He's too quick about it, at first. It's cold out here, but is he Fereldan or is he Fereldan? If cold could stop a Fereldan man from dropping his hay, the country wouldn't have any people in it. You'd rather he drag it out, the way you used to. He's obviously thinking about you while his hand works; he's mimicking the pattern of short and long strokes that you liked to practice on him, with occasional side-trips down to cup and roll his balls. He always liked that. You never liked for anyone to handle yours, but he could practically come from that alone. He bites his lips now, letting his head fall back as the imagining grows fuller. His free hand, which still clutches your old smalls, inches closer, and closer. _Yeah_ , you think, licking your ghost-lips at the sight. _Go ahead, love. You're fucking beautiful. Let me see you in all your glory_.

     Maybe he hears you. Maybe there's something to this whole _I'll always be with you_ business. Because he pauses for an instant, his lovely eyes half-opening for a breath and then closing in bliss, and then -- oh, yeah. He starts two-handing it, one hand curling the silk smalls 'round his length, the other massaging the tip in that light-fingered way he used to love when you did it. Thinking of having you, isn't he? Thinking of your arse in these smalls. Thinking of bending you over, slipping the smalls down, gripping your hips through the silk, listening to you moan while he rides deep and long and slow and --

     Maker, he's so lovely when he spills. It shakes him all over, bows his back, makes his mouth fall open, makes him pant great clouds of hot breath into the dry, cold air. You can feel him, too, and not just see him; being dead's better than you thought it could be, this way. You're with him when the clench starts in his groin and the tingle pulses through his nipples and the muscles flex in his arse. He's thinking about coming inside you, three nice balls-deep thrusts to get it all out. He's thinking about you crying out beneath him. He's getting it all over those ugly-arse smalls, nice and sticky the way you like it and he hates it, but this is for you so he's given up all the prudery and it's fucking _gorgeous_.

     Your Cull. He's so fucking gorgeous.

     You miss him so much.

     But this is good. This is what he needs. He shudders a last few times, grips himself and tugs a little to finish himself off, then slumps where he is for a moment. It's fucking cold, though, and after a few breaths he shivers, mops himself off with the smalls, then tucks the little commander away. You're sorry to see it go, but hey. He's got to take care of it. Going to need it to make some other bloke or lass happy someday.

     Eventually Cullen gets to his feet. The smalls are in his hand, and for a moment you think he'll keep them. That's good too. They're nice wank material, and Cull needs a regular wanking regimen. He sighs, though, and crouches to tuck them in among the other small offerings. He's balled them up so the stain won't show, because Cullen.

     "Only you could have me do such a thing and feel good of it," he murmurs aloud. "Maker. I miss you so, my love. But I will do as I think you want of me. I will be well. And someday..."

     He has to stop. You feel him fighting tears. You help, as much as you can. He's cried enough.

     Maybe it works, or maybe he's just that strong. He takes a deep breath and stands again, eyes clear, back straight. Then he pivots on one foot, soldier-precise, and heads back down the path toward Skyhold's entrance.

     There we go. Grief all done. And someday...

     Yeah.


End file.
